


The Purple Tunic

by John_Faina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Flowers, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, King Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic Revealed, Metaphors, Romantic Friendship, Smut, Sweet, Symbolism, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Faina/pseuds/John_Faina
Summary: "Once the tunic was over Arthur’s head, Merlin wadded it up and shoved it into Arthur’s chest hard enough to send him stumbling. Arthur grabbed at it at once and shoved it back into Merlin’s chest just as hard. An affronted Merlin leaped forward, snapping the tunic at him, whipping him across the ribs. Arthur’s hand shot out; he yanked the fabric free of Merlin’s hands, and began beating him without mercy. Merlin dove for the ground between Arthur’s feet, shouting, and came back up with Arthur’s discarded white tunic.They fought to the death, laughing and dancing clumsily about, arms waving wildly, each trying to deal the other the mortal blow that would announce the victor.In the end, Arthur was just too quick and brutal for Merlin. He pinned him roughly to the bedpost and immediately wrapped the arms of the purple tunic around his neck, looping them around the post so he was effectively captured."
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 442





	The Purple Tunic

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that Purple Tunic. You know The One. What if Arthur was the one who gave it to him?
> 
> Warning: Gwen is neither seen nor mentioned in this story. Feel free to assume it takes place during the time period of her banishment, or simply imagine that the relationship between Gwen and Arthur was never a successful romantic one.

The revelation happened over a purple tunic that Arthur never wore. 

If Merlin had let it be, it would still be stuffed at the back of his wardrobe, growing musty and tattered, and completely unheeded.

Arthur had no idea how or why he even owned such a stark and bold tunic that wasn’t his usual royal red. He didn’t remember anyone ordering for it or remember, in fact, when it had been brought into his possession. He’d certainly never worn it. But he must have glimpsed it at some point, all those times he plucked clothing out of the wardrobe himself and dressed before it; perhaps seen it and not given it much thought, attributed no importance to it at all. 

But Merlin plunged his little hand back there and dragged it out, like the insufferable, nosy fool he was _._ When he did, Arthur suddenly realized that he had actually thought about wearing it once or twice. Pictured himself in it before the mirror, considered the contrast of the rich bold color against his light skin and golden hair--bold in such a dramatically different way from the red. He’d look like a different person, almost, wouldn’t he? No less regal, but...more himself. Maybe.

It was only a thought.

It happened when they were in Arthur’s chambers just after dusk. 

Arthur was sitting at the table with a goblet of wine and a platter full of food; despite this, he felt stressed and irritable. The day had been stringent and full of odd complaints and unusual grievances that made him want to laugh, scream, and hide away all at once. Everyone wanted something from him. His opinion, his attention, his pardon, his word, his blessing, his decision. This was all well and good, of course, part of the job, but, gods, sometimes Arthur felt like he was being pulled in so many directions he didn’t know which way to turn. And obviously he could not break his kingly character to laugh under the stress; couldn’t frighten his people and council by screaming; had no place to hide. Not out there, not in the thick of it all. It was only here, in his chambers, once duties were done for the day, and the sun had begun to set in dismissal, that he could even begin to relax. 

Merlin was on the other side of the room, busy putting away his freshly laundered clothes from a wicker basket. As usual, he was chattering away like a clothed monkey Arthur had seen once in the Great Hall at his eleventh birthday feast. 

“--and besides,” he was saying, “how are _you_ supposed to have been able to stop those foxes getting at his rabbits? Who does he think you are, the Fox King? So you reign over every living thing in sight, but surely he doesn’t think that you can actually _order_ foxes not to go after people’s--you know, if you ask me--which, _I know,_ you wouldn’t--I’d be prepared to bet you anything he accidentally left the rabbit hut wide open--or ate the rabbits himself--”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupted, exasperated, at last distracted from his brooding thoughts, “why would the man eat his own rabbits and then traipse three miles through the forest to ask me to _ban_ foxes?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s trying to compensate for the shame.” Merlin’s tone was dark and playfully dramatic.

“The shame of what?”

“Of _eating_ his _rabbits_.”

Merlin stopped his movements as he said this, clutching a pair of breeches, looking wide-eyed at Arthur, as if unable to believe he hadn’t caught on.

Arthur huffed, sitting back in his chair. “Does a man not keep rabbits to eat them?”

“Well, it’s either that or to wear them,” Merlin said, with a shrug, casually resuming what he was doing.

Arthur wanted to tear his own hair out.

“So then where’s the _shame_ in eating your own rabbits?” he asked, totally losing the thread of the sentiment behind the original tangent. 

There was a smile in Merlin’s voice (and something serious as well) as he answered, hanging up a tunic. “They’re sweet, aren’t they?”

Oh. Of course.

Arthur rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh, and then ducked his head, looking down at the food on his plate that Merlin had fetched him. There was no rabbit on it. Only pork. There never was any rabbit, come to think of it, though the castle kitchens had plenty of it. Brow furrowing, he looked back up at Merlin, and cocked his head just slightly. 

He never knew Merlin held any affection for rabbits.

Merlin wasn’t paying any attention; he was extracting a piece of fabric from the depths of the wardrobe. It was a deep, rich purple, crisp, yet slightly wrinkled from disuse.

“ _What’s_ this?” he asked delightedly, holding it out, examining it from collar to hem bottom.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. 

“That, Merlin, is a tunic.”

“I’ve never seen you wear it!”

There was a pause as Arthur considered the tunic. And the statement. It didn’t look terribly familiar to him either, and the color struck him as unusual for his wardrobe. Didn’t Merlin know anything about it?

“I suppose that’s because I’ve never worn it,” he said dryly. “Purple isn’t exactly my color.”

Merlin scoffed, fiddling with the sleeves. “Please, every color is your color,” he muttered, mostly to himself, sounding not entirely pleased about it. Before Arthur could respond to such a statement, Merlin held the tunic up and out in Arthur’s direction, and cocked his head thoughtfully. 

Arthur did the same. He did recognize the tunic now, come to think of it. It was the one he’d sometimes considered wearing. He always thought better of it.

Merlin appeared to consider the view for a long moment. 

He was too far away for Arthur to see what thoughts crossed his mind, but he thought he could detect an air of appreciation about him.

Arthur shifted, and, without knowing exactly what to do under this thoughtful scrutiny, snatched up his goblet, drained it, and set it down on the table, hard.

Merlin seemed to come to himself, blinking himself back to duty like he hadn’t meant to get quite so lost. Instead of putting the tunic away, though, he tossed it onto the bed, before grabbing a pair of breeches from the wicker basket. 

Arthur’s ears were pink underneath his hair (infuriatingly), but Merlin didn’t really seem fazed at all, going by the fact that he carried right on talking, picking up his earlier cheerful abuse of some of the more ridiculous complaints Arthur had told him about. 

He, of _course,_ didn’t so much as pause to come and refill his goblet. 

Useless, ridiculous servant. 

Arthur smothered a grin in his plate. Suddenly ravenous, he finished his food while Merlin finished putting away the laundry.

Arthur stood and walked over to the bed, just as Merlin closed the door to the wardrobe. 

“So,” he said, conversationally, “I suppose you’d like me to try it on.”

Merlin’s gaze shifted from the tunic on the bed to Arthur. He looked at Arthur with surprise--but then his eyes narrowed and became defensive.

“Actually, I was going to keep it.”

Arthur was staggered. “ _What?_ ”

“Well--” Merlin gave a brief shake of his head and scoffed, “it’s much too small for you!”

“Too small for me!” Arthur snatched up the tunic and looked it over.

It didn’t _look_ too small.

“Yes!” Merlin squawked, glancing about as if someone were present to tell him that Arthur was quite mad. “Arthur, you couldn’t fit into that if you were eighteen again.”

Arthur shot a glare at him. “Excuse me?”

It was difficult to work out which bit he was more indignant about: the fact that Merlin imagined himself free to simply help himself to his king’s belongings, or the fact that Merlin considered him too fat for the purple tunic, rather than merely unsuitable. 

It was for this reason that he promptly tore off the white tunic he wore and pulled the purple one over his head. 

Only he couldn’t _quite_ seem to get it over his head.

He struggled with it, flailing about, trying to force it down, but it only tightened and refused to yield.

“I suppose we could always butter you up,” Merlin’s voice shook with barely contained laughter. “See if that does any good, considering you’re trying to fit your head through the arm hole.”

Arthur grunted, annoyed, flailing about even more, his vision restricted by the thick, coarse fabric. 

“Here, sire--”

He felt Merlin’s fingertips graze him and jerked away--he didn’t need Merlin’s help--but his servant followed, yanking the tunic up and over his head, forcibly freeing him.

Arthur, hair in his eyes, glared at him. 

“Arms up,” Merlin grinned. 

After a few more moments of glaring, Arthur bent at the waist and held out his arms. Merlin slid the tunic over him with practiced ease and tugged it into place. There was just a little more tugging than usual to get it right.

Arthur straightened. He shifted his shoulders, getting a feel for the fit. There was no denying it; it was tighter than the tunics he was used to.

But it wasn’t altogether unsuitable. He found that he rather liked the color.

He looked up to see Merlin rake an eye over him. Close up now, he definitely detected an air of appreciation about him.

“There now, you see,” Merlin said after a beat. “Too small.”

“No,” Arthur said, “you said I wouldn’t be able to fit into it, and yet here I am.” He spread his arms in display, smiling, triumphant. “So you can’t have it.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Yes, all right.” He made a summoning gesture. “Now take it off, come on--”

Once the tunic was over Arthur’s head, Merlin wadded it up and shoved it into Arthur’s chest hard enough to send him stumbling. Arthur grabbed at it at once and shoved it back into Merlin’s chest just as hard. An affronted Merlin leaped forward, snapping the tunic at him, whipping him across the ribs. Arthur’s hand shot out; he yanked the fabric free of Merlin’s hands, and began beating him without mercy. Merlin dove for the ground between Arthur’s feet, shouting, and came back up with Arthur’s discarded white tunic. 

They fought to the death, laughing and dancing clumsily about, arms waving wildly, each trying to deal the other the mortal blow that would announce the victor. 

In the end, Arthur was just too quick and brutal for Merlin. He pinned him roughly to the bedpost and immediately wrapped the arms of the purple tunic around his neck, looping them around the post so he was effectively captured. 

Merlin’s hand flew to his neck, clutching at it dramatically. Arthur laughed, pulling it tighter.

“Do you yield?” he cried. 

“Yes-- _yes--_ I--ow--Arthur!” 

“Good.”

Arthur loosened his grip and Merlin gasped for breath. As he did, he noticed that the tunic fell loosely down Merlin’s chest. 

“Huh,” he said thoughtfully.

On a whim, he hitched it up, aligning its shoulders with Merlin’s, allowing the sleeves that had held Merlin captive to unfurl down Merlin’s arms. He cocked his head in a mirror image of what Merlin had done earlier. 

“Perhaps it is a better fit for your scrawny little frame, Merlin,” he said. 

“‘M not scrawny,” Merlin muttered, pouting.

It was trimmer in the waist, narrower in the shoulders. The color was brighter and bolder than any of the tattered old rags he usually wore. Merlin certainly didn’t own anything this nice, he knew, having seen all five of Merlin’s poor excuses for clothing items. (Three of which he was currently wearing).

Arthur rather thought the tunic might suit him. He found himself admiring the way the color contrasted with his skin, his flushed cheeks. His lips were so red they might have been competing for boldest color. Not unbecoming with his dark hair either, was it, not to mention his...

Merlin blinked at him curiously. 

His eyes were a royal, dark blue, twinkling with fading glee from their tussle.

Arthur realized how close they were standing. There was hardly an inch between them; their feet were slotted together on the floor. And Arthur was still pressing Merlin to the bedpost. Merlin was making no attempt to move.

He felt a sudden shock wave of dizzying _want_ so powerful, he swayed forward. Merlin steadied him with a sharp inhale. Their foreheads bumped and their noses brushed.

They were too close. Far too close. Arthur gripped handfuls of both the purple tunic and the one Merlin wore, tugging him forward, and kissed him hard.

Merlin’s hands flew to Arthur’s waist as if to keep balance; Arthur felt his finger tips digging roughly into his skin.

It didn’t last long. It was a bruising kiss that seemed to suck all the air from both of them in seconds, leaving them no choice but to part, panting in the space between them. They stared at each other. 

Arthur came to himself first. “Uh--” he said, taking a hasty step back. The purple tunic fell to the ground between their feet. 

Merlin swayed, blinking. 

Arthur whirled on the spot, his hand jumping to his hair, eyes frantically searching the ground as if looking for the explanation for what the hell just happened. Merlin seemed unable to hold his tongue for two seconds to let him think.

“ _What_ \--” came his hoarse voice behind him, “did you just--?”

“I--” Arthur started to say, heart pounding.

“It was like--like you just _hit_ me with your _lips_!”

He said it with so much disbelief it almost bordered on outrage.

Arthur whirled around again, full of air, mouth open to retort. But he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. So instead, he drew himself up to his full height, looked Merlin dead in the eye--and burst out laughing. 

Merlin sputtered, indignant.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Arthur told him breathlessly.

Merlin clutched the bedpost behind him, staring at Arthur like he’d just spouted fire.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was storming from the room, without so much as a _goodnight, sire._

The slam of the door was loud and reverberate. 

Then silence.

Arthur sobered, his relief all at once replaced by sharp dread. The reality of what had just happened struck him.

He’d kissed Merlin.

He’d _kissed_ his manservant. Without so much as asking permission. Without even a thought as to how it might make Merlin feel. Consequences be damned. Oh, it wasn’t good. Not good at all.

Heart beat thundering in his ears, Arthur snatched up the tunic from where it had been dropped on the floor, hurried into it with no effort this time, and tore after him, pulling open the door with all his strength. 

The corridor beyond was empty and he could hear no echoing footsteps. Merlin was still close, then. He hadn’t had nearly enough time to make it out of the castle. Arthur ran down the length of that corridor and turned the corner. He ran, finding nothing, until he turned his third corner. 

Sure enough, there was Merlin, leaning against the wall in between two torches. His head was buried in his hands. The sight of him pulled Arthur up short. It struck him all at once that he’d made a terrible, reckless mistake.

Merlin looked around sharply. But he couldn’t seem to look at Arthur, for he jerked his head and turned away, folding his arms across his chest.

“Merlin, please,” Arthur said, taking a step towards him. He opened his mouth to say more--but couldn’t seem to find the words.

“Why?” Merlin’s voice was dull. It was as if he’d understood exactly what Arthur had not said.

“I was rash,” Arthur said thickly. “Come, so we can talk.”

“No. Why are you wearing that tunic?”

The question exasperated, confused, and endeared Arthur all at once.

“I _don’t_ know, will you just _”--_ Arthur gripped his elbow tightly--”come on!”

He dragged a resistant Merlin all the way back to his chambers.

Arthur all but tossed him in and turned to close the door behind them. Merlin, having staggered, righted himself and whirled around, full of righteousness. 

But before he could open his mouth, Arthur stepped forward and said loudly:

“I wonder if you know,” his voice full of diplomacy, “that you make me laugh.”

Merlin went still, mouth shutting with a snap, and flicked his gaze up to him, like he wasn’t entirely sure if Arthur had lost his mind or not. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure of it himself.

“You have this way about you,” he said nevertheless, pressing his advantage, taking another step forward. “This way of teasing me. Making me forget myself and my duties. Well, no, not exactly…” Arthur cast about, looking for the right words. Merlin watched him intently, if not suspiciously. “It’s more as if you make everything...not easy. I wouldn’t go so far. Fun,” Arthur decided with a nod.

Merlin blushed and shifted, clearly wrong-footed. He crossed his arms over his chest again.

“Right,” he said, clearly waiting.

“Let’s not let this change anything between us,” Arthur said earnestly. “You’re my best friend, Merlin. I couldn’t bear it.”

He had never told Merlin this before. It wasn’t done. They could not ever be anything other than servant and master...and yet here they were. With Arthur groveling, hoping against hope that he hadn’t just ruined the best friendship he’d ever had. Pretending otherwise at this point would be futile. 

Merlin blinked several times, and visibly melted, looking first at Arthur, and then anywhere but at him. But he looked pained. He seemed to struggle with himself for several moments.

“Why did you kiss me?” he asked, so softly he might have hoped Arthur didn’t hear.

Arthur’s stomach dropped. He sighed, turning, rubbing his forehead.

He’d hoped that would be the end of it.

“Merlin…”

“No, why did you kiss me?” Merlin’s voice was louder, his resolve seeming to have hardened in the face of Arthur’s reluctance. “You wanted to talk.”

“We did.” Arthur turned to look at him. 

Merlin gaped at him. “You call that talking!”

“What else would you--”

“I call that,” Merlin interrupted, “being an insufferable”--he began to advance on Arthur, who stood his ground--”arrogant, insensitive _prat!_ ” 

He was angry. His eyes burned with it. Arthur swallowed, blinking. For a moment, it was as though he really had seen glowing embers in them.

“You think because you’re _Arthur_ ,” Merlin kept going, poking him in the chest, “that you can just kiss me, then flatter me and be done with it!” His voice rose an octave, mocking--” _It’s all right. It’s just my fool of a servant--_ to be used and cast aside without a moment’s thought--”

Arthur thought with a pang that was going a bit too far. “Now, hang on--”

“I’m loyal to you, Arthur,” Merlin said, voice dangerously low now. But Arthur could hear the cracks in it, through which pain and something desperate leaked. “I am your closest friend and you _know_ I’d do anything for you. But I _will not_ tolerate being strung along like a puppet at your hand.”

They were nose to nose.

Merlin’s eyes, which had been that dark blue before, seemed now to simmer with something fiery and, if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, golden.

Arthur was held by them, confused and entranced. He didn’t know how in the world they’d ended up here on such a normal, routine evening; he couldn’t be entirely sure why Merlin was so upset, and he didn’t know why his eyes looked like that. But there was nothing else for it; he couldn’t let Merlin believe that he would ever, _ever_ use him in such a way--

He wrapped a firm arm around Merlin’s waist and scooped him in. 

Merlin’s hands flew to Arthur’s shoulders, as if to ease the force of their collision. 

“Honestly, do you _ever_ stop talking,” Arthur asked him quietly. Merlin’s fiery gaze swept his face and lingered on his lips. 

Arthur kissed him, hard, for the second time. 

Merlin made a noise in the back of his throat, and bunched the fabric of Arthur’s tunic in his fists. Arthur nearly bent Merlin backwards in his conviction, but kept the balance by tightening the arm around his waist and sliding his hand to the back of his head. Merlin returned the kiss with eager, clumsy lips, arms going around Arthur’s neck, holding on like his life depended on it.

A wave seemed to burst over them, of warm air, charged--Arthur felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. It swirled up, rustling their clothes, lifting their hair, surrounding them. 

He saw, when he lifted his head with a gasp, that the air was shimmering, gold and purple. Otherworldly. Circling them, encasing them in fluttering ribbons. The ribbons quivered and darted around them, more than once binding them together before circling the air wildly--until, with a final caress to Merlin’s cheek, and then Arthur’s own, they drifted up and exploded into glittering gold dust that faded slowly into thin air.

Arthur and Merlin blinked at each other. There was fading gold in Merlin’s eyes. Arthur nearly dropped him. Merlin yelped, holding on tightly.

“You--” started Arthur, “that was--!”

Merlin finished his thought, breathless. “Magic.” He sounded absolutely astonished.

It was nothing to how Arthur felt.

But before he could properly burst, Merlin lifted trembling hands to Arthur’s face with a look like he could hardly believe what he was seeing. 

“There was magic in your eyes,” he said in a rush, tilting his head so that he could better search them. Arthur’s heart stopped beating. “I saw it. There’s magic in you, somehow, isn’t there--there’s--”

“ _What_ \--?” Arthur started, his head spinning. “What nonsense is--?”

“Two halves of a whole, same coin and all that-- _this_ is what they mean-- _this_ is why I feel like I know you better than I know myself, why I can feel you like you’re in my head--Arthur!” Merlin laughed delightedly. “This explains _everything_.”

“Have you completely lost your head?” Arthur snapped.

But Merlin was exuberant. He threw his arms around Arthur in a hug that had him stumbling. 

“You have it, Arthur,” he breathed. “Or maybe you’re just responsive to mine, somehow, I--”

Arthur exhaled, hard, arms tightening around Merlin on instinct. 

Merlin’s tone grew nervous and desperate. His grip tightened, too, and he suddenly buried his face in Arthur’s neck. “I have it. Magic. Always have. I didn’t mean to lose control of it--that doesn’t usually happen--sometimes it just bursts out of me--”

No.

It was impossible.

But Arthur had just seen it with his own two eyes.

“I wanted to tell you--” Merlin continued shakily, and pressed his lips against his skin, hands bunched in Arthur’s tunic again. Arthur shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d--I--I was waiting for the right time--” 

There were no words. 

“Magic,” Arthur eventually managed, his voice hoarse. “ _You_ have magic.”

It didn’t make any sense. 

_Merlin?_

He waited for the hurt, the anger.

But neither ever came.

Merlin slowly released him and pulled back until his hands were resting on Arthur’s shoulders. He met his eye with some caution. His cheeks were flushed and his ears were bright red. He was full to the brim with emotion.

Arthur could hardly breathe in the face of it.

“I’m not evil,” Merlin rushed to say, with so much earnestness that Arthur’s stomach swooped with the insane urge to laugh. Merlin must have seen the twitch in his expression, for he seemed to take heart. “I promise. I’m a simple servant--”

Arthur leveled him with a dubious look through his shock.

“Okay, I’m not,” said Merlin, sheepish. “But I haven’t hoodwinked you, if that’s what you’re thinking--I would never use my magic on you--well, unless it’s to save your life, which I have done a thousand times, by the way--”

Here, Arthur frowned in thought, his nose wrinkling, but all he found himself thinking about was the word _hoodwinked._

“--but I’m not trying to overthrow your kingdom, I swear. I’d hate to have your job. You had a terrible day. The _pressure--_ ”

Arthur couldn’t help himself; he laughed, a bark of a noise.

Merlin’s smile was like a flower blooming. Arthur was startled to see tears escape his eyes and fall swiftly down his cheeks.

The truth of the matter slammed into him with all the force of a wielded mace. 

_Merlin had magic._

_The whole time._

But what was more--

_Arthur loved him fiercely._

He did, didn’t he?

Without knowing exactly why or how he knew it, he knew that the two things were inexplicably connected. It was like he’d found the final part to the baffling riddle that was Merlin and he could now, at last, marvel openly.

Magic. Merlin. Of course. Love. Yes.

His insolence. His wild bravery. His surly retorts. His useless prattling and uncanny ability to make Arthur laugh until he couldn’t breathe. His clumsiness. His loyalty. His sensitivity and kindness. His dark, brooding moods and unusual silences. 

His power over Arthur.

Of course Merlin had magic. Of course he did. And of course Arthur loved him. Yes, he loved him quite a lot.

_Merlin._

Arthur could have throttled him then and there.

“You lying,”Arthur murmured, taking a step forward, “ _bumbling_ idiot.” Merlin watched him with wide, terrified eyes. He took Merlin’s face in his hands, his thumbs automatically sweeping the tears away. Merlin hiccuped and stopped breathing.

“I always knew there was something about you…” Arthur’s eyes swept Merlin’s face in wonder.

“You could feel it?” Merlin’s voice was small and unbearably hopeful. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said truthfully, “maybe.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” Merlin breathed, reaching up to cover Arthur’s hands with his own. “I was born with it, it’s why I left Ealdor--”

Merlin spoke quickly, as if he wanted Arthur to know everything all at once. Arthur listened, never breaking eye contact with him. 

“--my mother was terrified I’d get caught because I couldn’t always control it--I’ve got much better at it now. Now that I know it has a purpose--to protect you. That’s why I use it. And, well, I’ve had a lot of practice--”

Arthur’s vision blurred with hot tears. Clenching his jaw against them, he pressed their foreheads together. It was yet another part of the riddle of Merlin’s bravery and loyalty. 

“It exists for you, Arthur,” Merlin whispered into the space between them. 

“Show me,” Arthur sniffed, pulling back. He met Merlin’s eye. “I want to see.”

Merlin understood. With a hasty nod, he stepped back and cupped his trembling hands together. He looked at them for a moment and exhaled shakily, glancing up at Arthur with some disbelief and that same unbearable hope. 

The truth of the matter struck Arthur all over again. 

Merlin concentrated, then whispered something to his hands. His eyes flashed gold--and something white began to glow inside them. He slowly parted them to reveal a ball of white light that floated gently into the air between them, coming to a halt right at Arthur’s eye-level. 

Arthur’s breath caught.

He recognized it. The light from the cave. All those years ago. The one that had guided him to safety when it had been too dark to see where he was going, much less to get the Morteus flower for Merlin’s recovery.

He looked at Merlin, who, illuminated in the glow from the orb, looked pale and ethereal. 

Just then, the ball silently burst, evaporating into a cloud of mist--out of which fell an explosion of flowers with purple petals. They littered the ground at their feet. 

Merlin stared down at them oddly.

“That was supposed to be a Morteus flower,” he said, clearly embarrassed, scratching at the side of his face. He stooped to pick them up, scooping them into a bundle. He stared at them for a few more seconds, frowning--then blinked.

He held them out to Arthur with a crooked grin, one hand jumping to the back of his neck.

Arthur took them with both hands, carefully, as if they might explode. He examined them from all angles. They were just...normal flowers. So this was Merlin’s magic. Light and shimmering ribbons and flowers. Beautiful purple flowers. His heart gave a throb.

He might have known.

Arthur cleared his throat, which had tightened.

“So,” he said, looking up at Merlin, whose expression had completely melted. He affected a purposefully nonchalant tone. “Turns out you’re still completely useless, even with magic, then.” 

Merlin stared at him, uncomprehending.

“You couldn’t have sent me a _rope_?”

Arthur sniffed appreciatively at the flowers. 

Merlin seemed stunned. And then he scoffed, head rearing back.

“I was _half-dead!_ ” he cried. “Besides, what good would that have done? There was no one there to pull you up!”

“A _magical_ rope?”

“Oh, right, as if any amount of magic could lift your massive, royal behind--”

Arthur threw the whole bundle of flowers at his face. Merlin ducked, but it was too late.

“You-- _you_ really are on a roll, aren’t you?” Merlin pointed at him. 

Arthur lunged for him. But instead of a tussle, he caught Merlin around the waist and spun him wildly, as if he were no more than a sprightly maiden.

Only it ended up being less of the romantic gesture he’d been going for, and more of a challenge, for Merlin was heavier than he looked, and taller than Arthur. He yelled and struggled so much that Arthur lost his balance; they went toppling heavily over onto the floor.

It should have been quite painful and annoying, especially with limbs knocking together and Merlin’s sharp elbow landing in his stomach--but Arthur could only laugh through his groaning.

“Why?” groaned Merlin despairingly, half on top of him. “Why did it have to be you? You brute--” 

Arthur shoved him off, then rolled and pinned him to the floor. Merlin groaned again, struggling pitifully, but his eyes, which were dazed and full of happiness, betrayed him.

“This is what happens when you call me fat, Merlin.”

“Ugh, you’re _such_ a dollophead--”

“Not a dollophead.”

“Oh, you are definitely--” 

But the rest of Merlin’s words were muffled by Arthur’s lips.

Merlin groaned again in the back of his throat, this time sounding pleased. Arthur hummed, smiling. 

They kissed, uninterrupted this time, for ages, just soft presses of lips, feeling, exploring. Breathing each other’s air. Noses brushing. Sometimes pausing to grin against each other’s lips, before diving back in with fervor. 

Arthur couldn’t remember ever feeling so giddy. Neither could he remember ever having kissed anyone so thoroughly for so long, or having so much fun doing it. Chasing Merlin’s lips felt almost familiar. It was playful. Merlin teased and licked and nipped at him like the insolent man he was--and then he would soften and melt with a sigh and let Arthur taste his fill.

It was maddening in the best possible way. It seemed to light a fire underneath Arthur’s skin that, at first, merely simmered, but before long, spread and roared, making him hot and restless. Arthur contained it well, seized it, in fact, channeling it into their kisses, which then grew slick and hot, until they were both groaning into each other’s mouths.

“So,” Merlin breathed against Arthur’s lips during a brief pause. “Not going to have me executed, then.”

Arthur lifted his head, appalled. He was as flushed and breathless as if they’d been wrestling. He looked down at Merlin, who looked about the same.

Merlin’s voice was low and husky when he spoke again at length.

“I never thought--”

“Neither did I.”

“Are we going to--?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Probably get off the floor?”

“Might be best.”

Arthur climbed off of Merlin and got to his feet. His legs felt weak and he swayed a little, before offering Merlin a hand. Merlin stood, too, wobbly. They gazed at each other, hands clasped, standing close together.

And then--Arthur didn’t know who made the first move--they were intertwined like vines on a tree trunk, kissing, panting, clutching and shoving at each other until they, by some stroke of luck, managed to find Arthur’s bed.

They stopped next to it; there was a clumsy moment while Merlin used Arthur’s shoulder for balance while he took off his boots. The moment Merlin’s feet were free, Arthur pushed him--Merlin went toppling sideways onto the bed and rolled gracelessly across it with Arthur following on his hands and knees. 

In a whirl of color and limbs and pokes and jabs, Arthur had Merlin stretched out underneath him, eager and pliant and--quite grabby. Merlin pulled at him and plucked at his clothes, huffing, trying to pull the purple tunic over Arthur’s head.

Without hesitation, and with practiced ease, Arthur, bent at the waist over him, held out his arms and dropped his head.

Merlin, who had the tunic halfway over his head in seconds, suddenly burst into a fit of giggles. He seemed unable to continue the job, leaving Arthur trapped above him.

“Merlin!”

“Allow me to undress you, sire,” Merlin said in his most servile tone through his laughter, as Arthur struggled. 

“Merlin--!”

Merlin pulled the tunic the rest of the way off, and Arthur glared down at him through his hair. Merlin, still giggling, smoothed it back and then smoothed his hands across Arthur’s bare shoulders.

“Will there be anything else?” he quipped, his tone terribly fond, and carrying just a hint of suggestion.

“Will you _shut_ up--” Arthur said breathlessly, delighted. “Take this stupid thing off--” He flipped Merlin’s neckerchief onto his face.

Merlin removed it and flung it aside with all the straight-faced airs of a servant doing as he’s told. Arthur collapsed into laughter himself, helpless.

“Now this.” He plucked at Merlin’s tunic. 

Merlin sat up with Arthur in his lap, giggling again, and, not breaking eye contact, divested himself of the tunic. 

“Very good,” said Arthur regally. Then he raked an eye over him. 

Merlin blushed, but sat still, eyes twinkling.

His neck was really quite long and pale. His shoulders were broader than Arthur realized. He actually had some _muscle_ to his chest and stomach. Arthur was surprised.

“Have I never seen you shirtless?” Arthur asked, genuinely wondering. “I do believe you’re not as scrawny as you look, Merlin.”

“I’ve been _telling_ you I’m not--”

Arthur pushed him into the pillows, snorting. “I suppose you’re not ugly after all, that was another lie.”

“Really?” Merlin teased, his voice strained. “I still think you look like a toad.”

Arthur was kissing his neck. “No, you don’t,” he murmured, smug as Merlin sighed.

It was a shockingly delicious sound that had Arthur pressing his full weight against Merlin in an effort to get closer. He was long and thin and mostly hard angles; he was warm and wanting, and the scent of him filled Arthur’s senses.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Merlin conceded, running his hands along Arthur’s back. “ _Oh_ \--”

He gasped softly in Arthur’s ear. Arthur had slotted their hips together and rocked a little. 

Merlin gripped his waist and pushed his own hips upward.

They moved together, clutching one another. Arthur buried his nose in Merlin’s neck. Merlin lifted one knee, changing the angle, squirming under him.

“All right?” Arthur panted through a burst of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Merlin breathed, hard.

Arthur bore down with his hips, dragging his lips along Merlin’s neck.

Their movements became a little more desperate and frantic. Merlin shoved at Arthur’s breeches, trying to force them down.

“Up--up--” he panted, tapping Arthur’s hip, and Arthur lifted them just enough for Merlin to fumble with the ties and push the breeches out of the way. Merlin plunged his hand between them. Arthur, his head still buried in Merlin’s neck, jerked in pleasant surprise when he felt Merlin’s hand on his cock. 

It was gentle at first, his fingers probing, feeling, then circling and squeezing. Then he pressed his palm flat against it and carefully rubbed.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t Arthur who groaned this time.

“Oh…” Merlin sounded wrecked, his voice hoarse and shaking. He pressed Arthur’s cock flat to his stomach using the flat of his palm and held it there. He was feeling the heat of it, the weight of it, Arthur knew. 

Arthur’s head spun; he was spreading his legs as far as they could go, bearing down on Merlin’s hand. 

Merlin sighed a few words that Arthur didn’t catch, gripped Arthur’s cock and began stroking it, turning his face into Arthur’s. His nose brushed Arthur’s temple.

Arthur shuddered, pushing his hips into Merlin’s hand. Merlin tightened his grip a little; Arthur gripped a handful of his hair.

This, oh, _this_ was new. Wonderfully so.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a grating sound--Arthur didn’t know what it was--and then the sound of something hitting flesh. Merlin’s hand disappeared. Arthur propped himself up to see that Merlin had a vial that he was upturning over his palm, on to which oil was drizzling. 

The gold was fading from his eyes.

“You--!” Arthur started, realizing what had happened, both aroused and astounded. 

“Yes--sorry--”

But Merlin’s touch wasn’t apologetic at all. He wrapped his slick hand around Arthur’s aching cock like he couldn’t wait another moment and resumed stroking, looking heatedly up at him. Arthur’s stomach muscles tensed. 

He wasn’t going to last. The slide was too slick, the pressure too good--he pushed his hips desperately into Merlin’s hand with a strangled cry.

“Yes,” Merlin hissed softly, “yes--”

Arthur shuddered and went rigid, and came all over Merlin’s stomach. His sounds, and Merlin’s sinfully delighted noises filled the space between them, as Merlin’s gentled stroking wrung him of every last drop. 

Arthur was left panting and trembling over him. 

Merlin’s hand fell away.

But it didn’t fall far. Merlin, trembling as well, bit his lip and ran the backs of his fingertips from Arthur’s lower belly up to his chest. His hand turned and he smoothed his palm over it, his other hand coming to join. They came up to cup the sides of Arthur’s neck, before smoothing reverently over his shoulders.

“Arthur,” he whispered shakily.

Arthur struggled to make himself move. His limbs didn’t seem to want to work. He was loose and uncoordinated when he managed to sit back on his haunches to get at Merlin’s breeches. He untied them with shaky fingers and pulled them down over Merlin’s hips. He grabbed the vial of oil which lay tipped over next to them, drizzled some into his palm as Merlin had done, and promptly wrapped it around Merlin’s cock.

Merlin, who’d been watching him, threw his head back, lips parting on a whimper that made Arthur’s own toes curl.

Arthur leaned over him, his hand moving steadily up and down. Merlin arched and wiggled and writhed, clutching at the sheets. He made little breathy noises and some that may or may not have been words. Before long, he reached one hand between them and wrapped it around Arthur’s on his cock, tightening his grip, guiding the movement. 

Arthur found it unbearably erotic. His free hand slid up Merlin’s chest as he bit his own lip.

“Oh--!”

Merlin came with a shout all over their joined hands. Arthur watched him twitch and groan with fascination, his mouth hanging open, until Merlin collapsed boneless onto the bed with a huge, satisfied sigh. 

Arthur sat stock-still, eyes fixed on him.

_Gods._

After a moment, Merlin opened his eyes and lifted his head. They stared at each other breathlessly. Merlin’s cheeks suddenly flooded with color. As did Arthur’s.

Arthur climbed off him, and rolled onto his back. Lifting his hips, he hitched his breeches back up around them. Next to him, Merlin huffed in what sounded like amusement or amazement. Arthur couldn’t tell which.

They lay there for a moment, staring, dazed and embarrassed, at the ceiling.

Arthur heard Merlin murmur some nonsense words and saw him hover one hand over his own belly out of the corner of his eye (a _spell_ , he realized). Merlin pulled up his breeches as well. 

There was a tense silence.

Arthur had to ask: “Did you just--?”

“Use magic in your bed?” 

Which wasn’t the answer to the question Arthur was going to ask, but he found himself waiting with bated breath.

Merlin huffed. “Yes.” Another huff. “Mopping up spell.”

Arthur exhaled and frowned at the ceiling, baffled.

He had a sorcerer in his bed. Merlin, no less. He’d taken Merlin, the sorcerer, to bed.

He saw Merlin press a hand to his forehead. His tone turned stricken with either awe or horror as he murmured to himself:

“I used magic in Arthur’s bed…” 

Arthur turned his head to look at him. After a moment, Merlin did the same. Arthur raised an eyebrow. This, for whatever reason, made Merlin dissolve into laughter. It was infectious; Arthur promptly followed suit.

The tension in the room seemed to snap.

They were still laughing when they both rolled over to face each other at the same time.

“ _Gods,”_ Merlin breathed.

“Yes, for once, I completely agree,” Arthur told him.

“I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Well, you’ve--” Arthur started, a dry retort on his lips, but instead, he found himself blushing again. He thought of the way he’d trembled over Merlin and ground into his hand. He pushed half of his face into his pillow. “ _Ugh_ \--”

“Embarrassed?” Merlin asked, sounding delighted, though his own cheeks were still pink.

“No.” Arthur hitched his shoulder up around his ear.

Merlin shifted right into Arthur’s space, his face inches from Arthur’s on his pillow. He pushed half of his face into it as well, grinning. 

“Really,” he said. “Who knew?”

“Shut up, Merlin. You feel the same.”

Merlin giggled.

“And stop giggling, you sound like a child.”

Merlin pressed his lips together and shoved his face even further into the pillow.

“Sorry.”

Arthur snorted.

They gazed at each other for several moments, during which Merlin tentatively raised a hand and smoothed it down Arthur’s arm. Arthur pressed his face even further into the pillow.

“I threw flowers at you,” he murmured, suddenly remorseful.

“That’s all right,” Merlin murmured back. “I’ll get you some more.”

Arthur grinned, pleased.

“And what’ll I give you in return?”

“Hmm…” Merlin hummed thoughtfully, playfully. He grinned at Arthur. “I quite like that purple tunic.”

“It suits you,” Arthur said without hesitation. 

“Does it?” Merlin sounded surprised. “It _really_ suits you.” He trailed a fingertip up and down Arthur’s arm.

Arthur tingled, both at the touch and at the now very obvious note of appreciation. 

“It is a better fit for you,” he admitted. He looked into Merlin’s soft eyes. “I want you to have it.”

Merlin smiled at him. Arthur couldn’t help himself; he shifted forward, inching his head closer to Merlin’s on the pillow, until their noses brushed. Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed; he tilted his chin up, clearly anticipating the kiss that Arthur then gave him. It was chaste and gentle, just a meeting of warm lips. Arthur kissed him once, twice, three times, before pulling back, settling his head on the pillow. Merlin’s eyes opened again.

They searched Arthur’s deeply, wonderingly. Arthur let him look, his own eyes flickering over Merlin’s nose, and the lips he’d just kissed.

“It wasn’t magic,” Merlin whispered.

“It wasn’t?” Arthur asked, distracted.

“Not what I saw in your eyes,” he said. “I thought I saw magic in them, but…” Merlin placed a hand underneath his own head, eyes still searching. “I think I just saw my own magic reflected back at me.”

Arthur considered this statement, blinking. He was oddly struck. There was something profound in it, wasn’t there? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Reaching out, he laid a gentle hand on Merlin’s face.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his own eyes searching now.

“Yeah,” echoed Merlin, and leaned in to accept another kiss.


End file.
